


A Spell for Midsummer

by CracklPop



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 15:42:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20744642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CracklPop/pseuds/CracklPop
Summary: The Tale of CinderStiles and Prince Peter.Stiles is stuck living with his wicked stepmother and selfish twin stepbrothers. Peter is the recently returned scion of the ruling werewolf pack. With their respective identities unknown to each other, Stiles and Peter fall in love during a series of three lavish fêtes. But what happens when the truth comes out? (Obviously it's a happy ending.)





	A Spell for Midsummer

**Author's Note:**

> So as much as I initially loved the idea of Alan Deaton in a fairy godmother-type role, I eventually decided that the Teen Wolf world really lends itself better to the Magical Tree version of Cinderella.
> 
> Disclaimer: I neither own these characters nor profit from them.

_Prologue_

Once upon a time, a tree grew in a deep, dark forest. The tree was worshipped by druids and nourished by mages and protected by wolves. Its roots dug far into the earth as its branches spread high toward the stars. It was the monarch of the woods, and as the centuries passed, its power rose to surpass that of its tenders. 

The mages became greedy, trying to bleed the tree of its magic. The druids came with sharp blades and bright flames and made to chop the tree down. _Nemeton_, they named it, _sacred_, they called it, but still they sought to steal its life. 

The tree—the Nemeton—had grown strong in its years, however, too strong to be defeated or disfigured by mortals. The magic-wielders discovered this to their great regret, and the grasses and flowers were painted red with their blood when the Nemeton took its revenge. The bodies disappeared beneath the ground to nourish the roots of the great tree. 

_Never again_, the Nemeton thought, angry that its guards, the wolves, had failed, and that its attendants, the mages, had turned traitor. Bitterly, its branches lashing with fury, the tree hid itself from the sight of any person. In time, knowledge of its existence faded to rumor, then myth. 

The wolves’ keen noses failed them when they neared the Nemeton’s grove. The druids’ learning ran dry when they tried to locate the tree. The mages felt a hollowness when they practiced their craft, and the forest did not welcome them. 

The seasons turned and turned, and the Nemeton hoarded its power and hardened its heart. Humans, the least of the mortals, built their farms and their villages. The wolves took their two-legged shapes more often, ruling over the humans and dwelling in the choicest cities. The druids and mages reached an uneasy peace with the wolves, and as things changed around the Nemeton, it protected its borders more fiercely. The forest was diminished but unconquered. 

There were attempts, over the years of self-imposed isolation, to pierce the Nemeton’s wards of secrecy and concealment. The tree responded violently to any encroachment, and the ill-fated spell-casters who tried to find the tree were broken in their efforts, their magic drained and their minds shattered. Remnants of their spirits sometimes found their way to the Nemeton’s grove, some restless, some peaceful. Their cries were faint, and eventually they moved on. 

All but one. One spirit, strangely solid, remained much longer than the others. It had a feminine-feeling energy, and when the Nemeton asked it why it lingered, it sent images and feelings and the sense of a link to the other side of the Nemeton’s barrier. 

The Nemeton considered the things the spirit shared. A warm feeling, like sunshine reaching to the deepest parts of its branches. Memories of a small human with eyes like old amber and pink lips turned up in a ready smile. The spirit’s thoughts made the Nemeton…curious. It found that the warm feeling and the boy occupied more of its attention than seemed necessary. 

One day, after the spirit had dwelt in the grove for months, the amber-eyed boy himself came to the Nemeton, walking without hesitation, and in his hand was the bone from a woman’s finger. 

_My Mieczysław_, the spirit whispered, and the branches of lesser trees quivered. 

The boy’s head turned sharply, as though he could hear her in the rustling leaves. Then he crept to the base of the Nemeton’s trunk, digging in the dirt until there was a space for the bone. He covered it up with rich soil then knelt like an acolyte before the great tree, watering the bone with his tears. 

_Protect him_, the spirit murmured, soundless voice wrapping around each of the Nemeton’s heavy limbs, stern and sad. 

The boy rummaged in his pocket and came up with a small knife meant for rituals. He hesitated a moment, then sliced open his palm before turning it over and letting his blood drip down. It mixed with the soil and with his tears, and all at once the Nemeton felt the boy slip under its defenses. 

No spell would now keep the child away from the grove, no matter how cunningly it was wrought. 

From the spirit there was a surge of satisfaction, then a keen sense of grief. 

_Good-bye, my Mischief_, the Nemeton heard it say, before its voice became lost forever in the sighing of the air. 

_Present Day_

As expected, finding the hawthorn leaves was no problem. Stiles gathered them carefully, with the speed and efficiency of long practice. The berries, though. Replacing his store of dried hawthorn berries was going to be more difficult.

He glanced around the sun-dappled, meandering paths of the surrounding forest, narrowing his eyes at a noise and relaxing when he identified the sound as a pair of rabbits. 

Not here. He needed to be closer to the tree to collect the berries. Gently, Stiles lifted one of the hawthorn tree’s leafy branches and ran a finger over the place where it joined a larger section. He concentrated briefly, encouraging the branch to separate without trauma, then lifted the section away. 

He could never predict how long it would take to reach the tree. Sometimes it was minutes, other times more than a hour. It didn’t matter where he started from in the forest—he knew his feet would eventually lead him to the grove, but the tree didn’t always want to be found right away. Stiles chose to view it as the tree’s puckish sense of humor. 

The sun beat down on his head as he walked, and Stiles let its heat relax the persistent tension in his shoulders. He occasionally kicked at stray pebbles, his worn sneakers making little sound on the hard-packed dirt. 

It was nearly high summer, and, as usual for that time of year, the main topic of conversation around Beacon Hills was the Hale family’s annual Midsummer party. This year, though, most of the talk centered on the event’s unexpected guest of honor, the long-lost _mactíre flaith_ Peter Hale. Stiles’ stepbrothers, Ethan and Aiden, had spent nearly an hour that morning gossiping like teenage girls about the sudden return of the enigmatic Peter, who apparently was the youngest brother of the _Rí Ruirech Mactíre_ Talia Hale. 

In celebration of Peter’s return, the Hale pack was throwing three nights of parties, with the final gathering to coincide with their usual Midsummer Gala in downtown Beacon Hills. Everyone in the city was focused on who would be invited to the first two events, and from what Stiles had gathered, attendance was limited to people with higher social standing, like werewolves, mages, and probably some druids. Not any groups that included him, anyway. 

His stepmother, naturally, was obsessed with getting into the parties. Stiles supposed that her status as the mother of twin werewolves, in addition to being the wife of Noah Stilinski—who still served as the liaison between human police officers and the enforcers governed by the _Rí Ruirech_—meant she’d likely get into at least one of the fêtes. 

Her sons were more interested in the puzzle of Peter Hale, whose four older brothers and sisters were impressive werewolves, but not particularly mysterious. Aiden claimed Peter Hale had committed murder and was sent away in disgrace after his powerful pack paid off the authorities. Ethan said Peter had left after a scandal with one of the Argents. 

Stiles had pretended to be interested in their speculation while mentally working out how many days of hawthorn tea he had the supplies for. He could brew other things to help his father’s heart condition, but hawthorn was really the best. 

There was one thing he could be grateful to the maybe-murderer, maybe-delinquent Peter Hale for providing, Stiles supposed—the _flaith’s_ dramatic reappearance had sufficiently distracted Stiles’ stepmother and he hadn’t had much trouble escaping to the forest preserve. 

Stiles’ steps slowed as he recognized the outer rings of the Nemeton’s wards. He sent a friendly thought toward the tree and got a grudging mental reply, tinged, as usual, with a certain fondness. Stiles pushed his question about the berries toward the tree and received a sense of approval. 

Grinning, Stiles brought the hawthorn branch up to the level of his chest and reached his mind toward the vast, pulsing, green energy that glowed just on the edge of his senses. The Nemeton responded lazily, sending a wisp of power his way, enough for Stiles to delve into the cells of the hawthorn and _request_ that it produce berries well out of season. 

Stiles watched, delighted as he’d been the first time he had worked magic, as the bright, red berries budded and plumped up, until they were ripe and ready to be harvested. He plucked them with care, depositing them into an old piece of Tupperware from his backpack. Then he set the denuded hawthorn branch down on the ground and crouched to run his fingers over it. 

“Thank you,” he murmured. The branch slowly disintegrated, its components returning to the earth to enrich the soil. 

Stiles blew the Nemeton the equivalent of a mental kiss and felt it rumble quietly in return. Pleased with his morning’s work, Stiles turned and started the walk back to the edge of the preserve where he’d left his bicycle. 

The sun had grown hotter while he’d cast his spells, and Stiles adjusted the frayed straps of his bag, trying to allow some air to cool his back. When he passed the swimming hole he paused, tempted. His shift at his stepbrothers’ club didn’t start until that evening. It was true that there were always chores around the house, but…. 

Stiles slipped the backpack from his shoulders decisively. He was nineteen, an adult, and if he wanted to take a swim, he would. Then he bit his lip and hesitated, staring at the cool, rippling surface of the water. Just a quick swim, he told himself. Rachel, his stepmother, surely wouldn’t notice, as long as he was back in time to get lunch ready. Stiles shrugged out of his t-shirt and tossed it onto the backpack. 

His fingers were on his belt when he heard something big coming through the underbrush. Stiles jerked around, hands coming up with a defensive spell. 

A man was walking toward him, face tipped up to the sky in deep concentration, a sturdy hiking stick in his hand. As Stiles watched, the man turned his attention back to the scene in front of him and started in surprise when he saw Stiles. 

The man held his hands up in a mean-no-harm gesture and approached slowly. Stiles kept his spell ready, but the curiosity and humor in the man’s face made him relax a little. 

“Hello,” the man said. 

“Hello yourself,” Stiles replied, cautious. 

“Nice day for a swim,” the stranger said, nodding toward the water. 

“It’s hot enough,” Stiles said. 

“Don’t let me stop you,” the man returned. His eyes ran down Stiles’ bare chest once with a glint of appreciation. 

Stiles flushed and hurriedly pulled his shirt back over his head. As he yanked his pack up, the threadbare fabric ripped, and the container of hawthorn berries fell to the ground. The old, brittle plastic of the lid broke as it landed, berries tumbling into the dirt and grass. 

A very filthy string of words left Stiles’ mouth as he dropped to his knees and began to gather the red berries up. 

“Are these _hawthorn_ berries?” the man asked, his voice much closer than it should be, practically in Stiles’ ear. Stiles jerked his head up in shock, clocking the man in the chin and bruising them both in the process. 

“Shit,” Stiles swore, trying to figure out if he’d caused any real damage while also protecting the hard-won berries from being trampled. After a few seconds of anxious scrabbling in the dirt, he’d rescued the majority of the little berries, and he looked over at his unwanted companion, assessing. The other man was still conscious, so he couldn’t have been hit _that_ hard. 

“You’ve got a really hard head,” the man informed him. Stiles watched as the already faint bruising on the man’s face faded to nothing. 

“And you’re a werewolf,” Stiles observed. “I’m…sorry. This whole thing was my fault.” His words were stiff, but humans couldn’t afford to offend werewolves. “I apologize…sir.” 

The werewolf rolled his eyes at Stiles’ apology. They were very bright blue eyes, Stiles noticed, set in a very handsome face. Not that it should matter what the werewolf looked like to Stiles, of course. A werewolf’s only interest in a hedgewitch or a human would be for quick, uncomplicated sex. At best. 

“Bullshit,” the werewolf stated. 

Stiles blinked. 

“Sorry?” He met that amused blue gaze before dropping his eyes back to the ground. There were three berries he’d missed, just to the left of the werewolf’s knee. If the werewolf would just _go away_, Stiles could collect them and get them back home and into his workspace—

“It wasn’t your fault that I startled you,” the werewolf said. 

“Uh,” Stiles replied blankly.

“It didn’t feel good to have you hit me, but it wasn’t, as you say, _your fault_.” 

“Thanks?” Stiles stared at the three berries, confused. As he watched, a sun-browned hand reached through the scant grass to pick up the small red fruits. 

“Are these hawthorn berries?” the werewolf asked again. 

“Oh!” Stiles shoved the open container behind him, belatedly alarmed. “Er…no?”

“They look exactly like fresh hawthorn berries,” the werewolf continued, as though Stiles hadn’t spoken. “Except hawthorn berries, of course, are well out of season.”

“How do you even know what hawthorn berries look like?” Stiles demanded, cornered and cross about it. Most werewolves were primarily interested in pack politics, only deigning to engage with the natural world as a place for their four-legged versions to roam and hunt. Supposedly the _macdíre ruiri_ could feel the health of their pack lands, but the most Stiles had ever seen any werewolf know was how to spot and avoid wolfsbane. 

“I’ve found a little plant knowledge a useful thing in my travels,” the werewolf said, holding out his hand for Stiles to retrieve the berries. 

Quickly, before the werewolf could change his mind, Stiles snatched the berries up and put them carefully into the Tupperware, closing the broken lid as best he could.

“Thank you,” Stiles said to the forest floor. What the wolf said had piqued his interest, though, and he dared a look up through his lashes, curious. “Have you…uh…done a lot of traveling, then?” 

The wolf glanced down at him, surprise evident on his face. 

“Yes, actually. Most recently I was in China.”

“I’d love to travel,” Stiles said wistfully, the werewolf’s casual reply easing his nerves. “China looks so beautiful from the photos I’ve seen. Where were you?”

“Guangdong Province,” the werewolf said, repositioning himself so that he was seated on the ground. 

“There’s such a long history of herbal medicine there,” Stiles said, a bit dreamily. “Although” —here he smirked a little— “as a werewolf, I’m sure your knowledge of plant life helped you avoid the ‘king of the one-hundred herbs.’” 

To Stiles’ astonishment, the werewolf returned his smirk. His face was somehow even more handsome with that self-satisfied smile. 

“Aconite,” the werewolf said, tipping his head toward Stiles in acknowledgement. “Not a favorite choice for healing among my kind, true.” He tilted his head again, considering Stiles. “I wasn’t able to spend as much time as I’d like in China, but what I saw was remarkable. There’s such an interesting combination of reverence for history and drive for progress. And the landscape is so varied; much of it deeply lovely, you’re correct.”

He went on to speak for longer than Stiles would ever have expected, touching on the customs he’d observed and the people he’d met. The werewolf had a perceptive eye and a well-honed awareness of both the absurd and the profound. Stiles found himself listening avidly, asking questions whenever something came to him and being answered with thoughtful replies. 

Eventually, the werewolf circled back to the original topic, discussing the history of traditional medicine with fascinating detail. 

“It seems as though you practice something similar on your own, judging from all of that,” the wolf concluded, and Stiles blinked a few times before following the werewolf’s gaze to see that the herbs he’d spent the morning gathering were poking out from the rent in his backpack. He groaned softly, trying to figure out how he was going to get his bike back home when his bag wouldn’t hold anything. 

“I guess,” he answered, distracted. “Mostly teas and things like that. I do red-string spells…you know, the usual for a hedgewitch.” 

Thankfully, the werewolf didn’t seem inclined to pursue the mystery of the out-of-season hawthorn berries, and Stiles certainly didn’t volunteer any explanation. 

“Ah,” the werewolf said after a few minutes of Stiles frowning at his bag, the broken container of berries, and the assorted greenery spilling from his pack. 

“I don’t suppose you have a sewing kit on you?” Stiles asked with a sigh. “That was a joke, by the way. My sense of humor doesn’t really shine in moments like this, sorry.” 

“Well, I don’t have a needle and thread,” the werewolf said, sounding thoughtful. “But I think I can still help.” 

Stiles stared up at him, temporarily frozen in place as the werewolf nonchalantly stripped off his expensive-looking shirt. The view of a well-muscled torso and supernaturally sculpted biceps robbed Stiles of any verbal skills for the time it took the werewolf to carefully place Stiles’ wounded backpack into the shirt and neatly tie the whole package up, the container of berries on top and upright. 

“Thank you,” Stiles managed, blushing as he realized he’d spent more than a minute staring dumbly at a half-naked werewolf. 

The half-naked werewolf handed Stiles the shirt-wrapped bag with a broad, knowing grin. 

“This is a huge help,” Stiles said from a dry throat. He cleared it and forced his features into something more neutral. He hoped. 

“My pleasure,” the werewolf purred, clearly enjoying Stiles’ reaction. 

Stiles told himself to snap out of it—he saw more skin every night he worked at his stepbrothers’ club. There was absolutely zero justification for practically drooling over a strange werewolf’s chiseled chest. Well, apart from the fact that it was a very nice chest. 

“Thank you,” Stiles said again, firmly. “I, uh, have to get going, unfortunately. It was…really nice to meet you.”

“Aren’t you going for a swim?” the werewolf asked, managing to flex the muscles on display with an expression of innocence Stiles suspected was feigned. 

“Oh…no, not anymore,” said Stiles. He hesitated, then added, “It was great talking to you. I don’t get a chance to talk to a lot of people about what it’s like…you know…out there. In the world. So thank you. I enjoyed it very much.” 

He stood and the werewolf rose, as well, until they were facing each other. 

“I’m Stiles,” he said abruptly, feeling awkward but wanting something of himself to stay with this fascinating, unexpectedly kind wolf. 

“You can call me Quintus,” the werewolf replied, the side of his mouth twitching in a very small smile. He took Stiles’ hand in his and the feel of Quintus’ large, warm palm made Stiles’ heart beat faster. 

“Quintus. That’s—ah—unusual,” Stiles said, then winced. “I mean…it’s a neat name.” 

“My mother found it hilarious,” Quintus replied. “I’m the fifth child, you see.” 

“Oh, that’s…kind of funny,” said Stiles, smiling back at him. “Is the first child Primis?” 

“Hardly. My oldest sister has a family name, but that didn’t stop her from adopting her own bizarre conventions when she had children.” 

“Oh?” Stiles prompted. 

“She has a son and two daughters. My nephew escaped unscathed, but the daughters’ names rhyme.” 

“Oh,” Stiles said again, this time in shared amusement. “Poor kids.”

Quintus laughed at that, a rich, deep sound that made Stiles’ spirits lift. 

“They’re both older than you,” Quintus said. “But, I admit, it’s been years since I saw them, and in my mind they’re still children.” He sighed and the movement drew Stiles’ eyes to his impressive musculature again. 

“Well,” Stiles began, gripping his shirt parcel more tightly, “I really need to—”

“You need to get going, yes, I understand,” Quintus said. “I won’t keep you. Stiles.” 

When Stiles turned to go, Quintus made a short, cut-off noise, as though he’d started to say something and changed his mind. Stiles looked back over his shoulder, eyebrows raised in a question. 

“Do you….” Quintus shook his head then smiled ruefully. “I’m supposed to go to this party on Friday. It’s over at the Hale estate—do you know it?”

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles replied. “It’s the home of the _Rí Ruirech Mactíre_ for this whole territory. Who doesn’t?” He bit his lip then, shamefaced. “Wait, sorry. You’re totally from out of town, aren’t you? I’m an idiot. I should have guessed. You’re probably only here for the whole _Peter Hale Returns Party!_ And all that business, right?” Stiles offered Quintus an apologetic smile. “The Hales are a big deal around here. As you might guess, given Talia Hale’s overlord status. Shit! That’s probably super offensive to you. Er, not _overlord_…queen werewolf?”

“Usually saying _Rí Ruirech_ suffices,” Quintus replied drily. “And, yes, I’m in town for…Peter Hale.” He reached a hand out to grip Stiles’ shoulder briefly. “But I honestly don’t know many people who will be at this party, and I’m not really looking forward to it. You…intrigue me. I’d like to get to know you better—just have a chance to talk. Would you consider meeting me on Friday? If you come around nine at night, I could meet you by the edge of the preserve, where the Hale lands end and the forest begins. I’d…feel better if I knew I had a friend there. Even one of short standing.”

Quintus looked sincere and Stiles was entirely sympathetic. Years’ worth of memories from his own days as a grade-school outcast filled his mind, and Quintus’ suddenly obvious loneliness resonated with him on a bone-deep level. 

“I’ll—I’ll definitely try. Nine at night. Edge of the preserve. I should be able to see you,” Stiles said, inwardly vowing to do his damnedest to sneak out. Even if Quintus _was_ a gorgeous, well-traveled werewolf in a world dominated by werewolves…he was also a lonely guy who didn’t want to be friendless at a big party. And Stiles could definitely empathize with that feeling. 

“Until then,” Quintus said, reaching out to arrange the bundle of his shirt and Stiles’ bag so that it sat securely in Stiles’ arms. 

“Yeah,” Stiles replied, his voice breathier than he’d prefer. He turned and went back through the trees, and as he considered how best to tie the shirt to his bike’s handlebars, he felt the heat of Quintus’ gaze until he had passed from sight. 

_Friday_, Stiles thought with a pleasant shiver.

**Author's Note:**

> So...the style of this piece is different from anything else I've been working on for the last few years. Prose too purple? Ah, well. I love to experiment within the fanfic sphere! I think this world is probably the closest I'm ever going to get to writing the epic fantasy-type stories I read for many of my teenage years. And there aren't even swords! Of _any_ kind...so far [snicker].


End file.
